


Past Perfect

by namio



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Also this is hella old, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives, Domestic Superheroes AU, Gen, In which Ewan is a mom, Just pretend the last chapter didn't happen, Post-Canon, ignore it, sort of, this is actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namio/pseuds/namio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ewan tries to approach Seth with poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> THIS.  
> IS MY FIRST ARAGO FANFICTION.
> 
> This is the unchanged version. I will be uploading another that is more closely aligned with my more recent headcanons and the likes, but I'm not sure when that will happen. We'll see.
> 
> BUT YE. Bask in the remains of the Domestic Superheroes AU.  
> What is Domestic Superheroes AU, you say? Two words: Mom twins.

And now it was eventide. Seth did not say a word as Ewan sat on the bench, a smile playing on his lips like he held secrets to the world.

In the light of the nearby street lamp, Seth could see the stack of poem anthologies on his lap. Their names mocked him, and so did the fading, stained covers—paper from the days long gone, smelling like moth and decay. Home, somewhat. Used to be, anyway.

He no longer measured his life with years. Or home. Or footsteps, not anymore. It’s more the monotony of life that kept him in pace, monotony of pursue and mindlessness, suppressing the words of the Orc that used to rally him so. The war cries.

Time to let go.

“I followed your suggestion.” Ewan’s voice betrayed nothing, with its light lilt and knowing tone. “I asked some friends and they gave me poets and titles.”

Seth raised an eyebrow.

“You said I should pick up reading, but I can’t exactly live on Blake.”

“I can’t imagine you liking him, to be honest,” Seth said. “He was a legend, true, but I don’t imagine his works to fit you.” He paused. “Poems, or words, really, should be like a snug glove. Some nice clothes. Something to feel home in after a long day.”

There was, indeed, solace in the zealous words. Solace in the new world. Solace in Prometheus, in Apollo—in the benevolent light of Lugh and Núadu’s reigning years. The light of the sword. The end of Balor.

Seth swam in the metaphors. The water was murky.

“That’s a good way of putting it, I think.” Ewan looked upwards. “A snug blanket during rain.” Like the pitter patter in the dark, their words died out. London bustled around them, but no footsteps broke their shared reverie, and though car horns blew on nearby streets, neither of them stirred.

“What is it do you want?” Seth said, at last.

“Do I have to want something?”

“You came here with intentions. I do think that you want my time, which is a commodity, just like anything else.” It was easier to be curt, to be scathing, towards Ewan. The words struck home. The drawn out sentence and extra syllables meant something, instead of being lost in the whirlwind of Arago’s world. The intention came clear, but it didn’t mean Ewan took the blow.

“Such words,” he said, smiling.

“My age has no bearing on my lexicon.” Seth drummed his idle fingers on his knee. “And the same goes for your brother. The finer vocabulary is lost like it never had a home.”

“He’s no Enjolras,” Ewan said. Seth stopped his tapping. “Apollo Lugh comparisons aside, he’s not someone made for words.”

And he was, and yet he had none for the moment. That was his plight before all this, before the Orc—before the mythopoeia that so ensnared him in, and the words did not come. They linger in his tongue, fluttering, but they landed on deaf ears, on people terrified of the beating of the drums, on ignorant harlots who pled with words of anger.

Who was he, but the false prophet?

“ _Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?_ “

There was a part of him that feared Ewan. Not because of Claiomh Solais, far from it—Brionac was a far greater power right now, and he never bowed down before it. He feared the far more surreal, the probing eye—the inherent kindness that crawled deep into his mind. The person who pulled out dusty books to gain a glimpse, delving in deep, was far more destructive than a man who dug his hand into his heart. The words on it did not speak.

The beating did not spell.

“ _Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters_.” Imploring eyes seek his, but only silence returned its unnerving attention.

“Easy for you to say,” Seth said at last.

“I agree,” Ewan said. “Kahlil Gibran is not as hard to understand as William Blake.” A pause. “I’d like to address that as well. Perhaps you shouldn’t read so much Blake. I know you like his works, but a break now and then sounds good, don’t you think? I don’t know who you might like, but there are plenty of poetry here in London, I should think.”

Seth scoffed. “I think I should be insulted, Mr. Other Detective. I could not claim to be an educated individual if I read only one person’s work. But if you truly are starting, this, then: _I renounce the blessèd face, And renounce the voice--_ ”

“ _Because I cannot hope to turn again._ ” Ewan’s eyebrows rose, hiding behind his long tresses. The yellow glow did not dull in the night. “That’s not much better.”

“And here I thought you were reading Gibran?”

The fingers that gripped the stack of book twitched, as did his lips. Seth could understand the brief moment of hilarity, unspoken, and all the better for it. It had been a long time since he could say words like these. He did not think of Ewan as particularly a well-versed man, but he did  have a brain going on for him, when he was not busy racing to the martyr line with his brother.

“Well, it’s quite true. But you weren’t exactly balancing it, in my opinion.”

“Opinion is just that: an opinion.”

“An opinion has its basis.”

“And that basis is often poorly founded. Psyche twisted worse than labyrinths of the Underworld, Mr. Other Detective. Between you and I, I think we understand that.”

The dream flashed behind his eyelids more often than not. It was enlightening, that world—Seth was not a leader, he was not a king—Kings were for immortal men, engraving their legacy so deeply they were thought to be gods. Only the winds came forth to his rallying cries.

He frankly missed it.

There was a peace of mind in the easy days, the easy world. But that was what Lia Fáil did to determine the King: a king of Erinn’s land was not a man easily swayed by worthless dreams. They did not succumb.

He knew he wasn’t one, so he swam anyway.

“ _The blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates._ ” The seeing eye only had to see.

“ _Seeker of truth / follow no path / all paths lead where / truth is here._ ”

Seth turned to Ewan, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to lead me to places, I noted. Let’s speak of the human psyche later—there will be time for that. Right now we speak of you.”

“Are you insinuating that I am, in fact, not a human?”

“There you go again.” His gentle smile was anything but gentle in his eyes, and Seth looked away. “Honestly though, Seth. I’ve been reading.”

“Good for you then,” he murmured. “Maybe you’re less of a common pigeon than you were yesterday.”

“I can’t claim to know your past, but your choice of poet worry me.” Ewan pursed his lips. “Though it certainly is better than Owen.”

Time ticked on. Seth was sure that it was approaching eight by now—high time for Ewan to be home, as his brother was overbearing, but the latter did not move. He himself did not have much to return to. There was no need to hurry in his part, but he was unsure he would like to continue.

“What is your point, Mr. Other Detective?”

“Help me understand you, Seth.”

His eyes were determined, and Seth longed to rip it out of him. Those were not the eyes of his childhood, or even his present—they were attentive, painfully boring in, asked a million questions and he was not ready, he did not want it.

He always longed for it in his childhood, but the voice that said so was silenced within a moment.

“What do you want me to say? _And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?_ ”

A silence accompanied his outburst, and Seth feared he ended it. It was a strange fear, one he hadn’t felt for so long, but Ewan did not move, he did not shift. His eyes watched Seth, watched his face—too focused, too serious, and he wondered if he should just leave.

“ _There will be time, there will be time Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea._ ”

Figures. Of course he would use his own poem back at him. It seemed so easy, sometimes. His body slumped into an unflattering wilt, but Seth did not care at the moment. He did not even notice his voice rising previously—emotion was not something he indulged in for the past few years. And here Ewan was, making him say these things.

A traitorous voice said to him that it took two to converse.

“ _Why those questioning eyes That are fixed upon me? What can they do but shun me If empty night replies?_ ”

Ewan did not reply, but Seth could see him quietly drowning in his own mind. It was a familiar reflection. He reckoned his glassy eyes, too, glazed like that at times, milky, like cataracts that obscured those who see.

They could only obscure those who see.

“If you are done, Mr. Other Detective, then I shall be heading home.” He made a point of moving to stand, but a hand gripped his wrist. It was firm, and the fingertips coarse—reminded him of who the man was. This was the brother of Arago Hunt. He had voiced his secrets to a man related, genetically so, to a man who did not even remember a nursery rhyme.

“I did not mean ‘ _have you spill your hearts out and leave me in the middle of the park_ ’ when I said ‘ _help me understand you_ ’, Seth.”

“What more do you want me to say?” He was tired. He was tired. “ _Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, And they were never really stars at heart?_ ”

Ewan laughed, and it sounded like a dove and a crow, tattered and weary.

“Speak to me of my life’s truth, won’t you?” Behind his glasses, the subtle shift of his eyebrows were hard to see. “But no.”

His smile was disarming. “ _I am a pool, wherein you shall be shown How wonderful and starlike you can be, I am a mirror so that you may see Yourself most intimately and alone_.”

Seth closed his eyes and breathed in, counted to ten.

_"Hope" is the thing with feathers—_

“Those words of yours suggest multiple things,” Seth then said, voice betraying a small tremble. “I do hope it’s not what might be.”

“No, of course not,” Ewan said, simple as ever. “I’m just here to be. I do not seek anything. You just look like you need an ear, and I can’t trust Arago to ever lend you one. He had trouble hearing those who speak longer than fifteen words.”

Breathe. In. This strange thing unfurling inside of him was waking up, like a fox after winter, a groundhog peeking from its hole as the voices ceased to echo in the forest. There were answering calls. Pray, do tell, would winter be for another week? It felt so foreign, and yet the slightest bit of ray appealed to him.

He had no more use for wiles, not for anything significant. He had no need for carefully masked plans.

Ewan let his hand go and stood up himself. Seth almost turned to see why only to realise that he did so to clutch onto the stack of books he brought with him. He nearly chuckled.

“I suppose I will see you tomorrow?” Seth said. The words fought on its way out.

“Of course. What time is it—I can’t see, but oh well. Here’s hoping Arago didn’t just open a can for tonight.” He paused before smiling. “Though really, I can’t stop him, so I don’t see how a few minutes would change anything. Do you need a ride?”

“It won’t be necessary.”

Ewan shrugged. “Your call, then. Don’t hesitate on anyone’s account, though—and before you say otherwise, I know you’d be more reluctant to accept than you are to demand. Everyone do care, you know? Even Oz, and Rio, and Coco—Joe, too. It might not feel like it at first. But people change. When you were gone, well...”

“People change, I get it.”

Ewan’s smile was exasperated, but it held a tinge of affection, too. It made him think of family. “Well, I’m sure it will get drilled into your head after a bit. I’ll just have to make sure everyone’s with me.”

Seth frowned. Was that supposed to make him feel good? People were strange, but he did see things like this happening between the people on the streets. Perhaps there was something he wasn’t getting. Like how Ewan seemed to think that he could try being a dependable figure in his life.

A voice inside his head told him to be scared. He had seen how Ewan mothered Arago. And how Arago mothered him in return. And how Ewan made Seth take breaks he didn’t need. And how the both of them insisted on knowing his schedule on his new school. And how Oz started calling him appalling, disturbing nicknames. And Rio stopping now and then to check up on him. Coco bringing food he was sure he never asked for.

Okay. He was scared now.

“Come on, my car’s this way.”

He did not know why he followed, but he did. Ewan did not mention anything of his previous rejection. Seth reckoned it was something he learned from his years with Arago, whose unspoken rules were innumerable, whom Ewan tried to keep around by all means.

Perhaps that was why he was being this nice.

But still, he took the offer. He left the car with three books he previously did not have, and came home to make himself a cup of tea, running his fingers on the paper cover as he waited for the kettle to whistle. His own copy of William Blake, worn and dog-eared, sat inside his bag.

He did not open any of them, but the words swim behind his eyelids for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Poems quoted:
> 
> 1\. On Good and Evil, Kahlil Gibran  
> 2\. Ash Wednesday, TS Eliot  
> 3\. Seekers of Truth, E.E. Cummings  
> 4\. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, TS Eliot  
> 5\. A First Confession, William Butler Yeats  
> 6\. Fireflies In The Garden, Robert Frost  
> 7\. To Narcissus, Winnifred Welles  
> 8\. “Hope” is the thing with feathers-- , Emily Dickinson
> 
> The first line is the last poem in The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. Just saying that. It’s not actually very important.


End file.
